


Worries

by realismandromance



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Drama, F/M, Family, Harry Potter Next Generation, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:04:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4255782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realismandromance/pseuds/realismandromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story about Ron and Hermione (and Rose and Hugo, to a lesser extent), and the little things that separate childhood worries from grown-up ones, and how our childhoods help shape the kind of parents we become … well, either that, or a lot of nonsense about nothing in particular. Take your pick. Set in July 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worries

The would-be argument started over something so petty, so silly, that Hermione was half inclined to label her irritation as fake (formed out of habit, no doubt), or dismiss her husband's words with a lofty, childish put-down such as  _'Just because you've got the emotional range of a teaspoon doesn't mean we all have'_  or  _'I don't currently feel inclined to listen to the opinion of someone who once called me, if I remember correctly, a "nightmare"'_.

And yet, there was something that kept her clinging to her stance. Disagreement for the sake of disagreement? A desire to break the monotony of married life? (She almost laughed aloud at this absurd suggestion – married life, with Ron by her side, Rose and Hugo growing taller every day and her career in Magical Law breaking down boundaries every moment, could never, ever be dull.)

Sure, it was late and the children were both in bed, asleep, but dammit, she and Ron hadn't had a decent argument in  _weeks_ , positively weeks, and in her sleep-deprived state, it was unthinkable to let this opportunity go to waste.

'You worry too much, Hermione,' Ron said affectionately, reaching across the kitchen table and brushing a lock of bushy brown hair out of her face. She swiped his hand away.

'And you don't worry enough!' she snapped; he looked startled at the sudden, volatile turn the conversation had taken. 'There are so many things you never consider and should! Money doesn't grow on trees – I know the shop is doing well now, but it's foolish to take things for granted. What if …'

'We'll have enough.'

She bristled at the interruption, exasperated. Why this new, calm Ron? Why couldn't they have a good fight for once?

'Anyway, I don't see why you had to go and buy that Comet Three Billion or whatever it is for Hugo, when he's already got a perfectly good broomstick – Rose's old one.'

'Hermione, trust me, I know about brooms,' said Ron, annoyance creeping into his voice. 'Me and Harry and Rose –'

'Harry and Rose and  _I_  –'

'– fine, Harry and Rose and  _I_  went down to Quality Quidditch Supplies last weekend to pick out Hugo's birthday present. Rose's idea. And it wasn't the most expensive there, not by a long shot. You should have seen the new Firebolt – speed like you wouldn't believe –'

'And a price tag to go with it,' she said acidly.

He shrugged. 'Well, price on demand, anyway. And we didn't ask. Didn't want Rose getting any ideas.'

She really couldn't fault that. The bickering was pointless, really – their financial situation was the best it had been in years (flashy, unattainable Firebolts be damned). And it was true that both Rose and Hugo had been obsessed with Quidditch ever since they'd gone to watch the World Cup in the Patagonian Desert last summer. Still, she was surprised and pleased by the way Ron had dealt with the difficult cards she'd played him. He'd truly grown into his own – a far cry from the moody, envious, insecure teenage boy she'd fallen in love with, but so much more mature … her husband,  _her_  Ron!

Hermione recalled with love and pride the way he'd dealt with a certain delicate situation not long ago. She'd come home unusually late from work, tired and irascible, to a quiet house and a warm dinner. Ron was up, waiting for her.

'Rosie wanted to stay awake until you came home, you know,' he said, once he'd given her a kiss and she'd sat down to eat.

'Did she?' Hermione paused, fork halfway to her mouth, as guilt flooded through her. She'd been so afraid of becoming one of  _those_  parents, who worked all hours and was only just aware what her children looked like. 'Are they both asleep?'

Ron nodded. 'Took a while – half a dozen bedtime stories each. I was almost tempted to use a few sleeping charms to help them along.'

In spite of herself, Hermione smiled. 'They've got you wrapped around their little fingers. You mustn't spoil them.'

'Well, you weren't home, so …'

'I  _had_  to stay and finish the job – or would you rather I put everything off until tomorrow? Anyway, that's no excuse for poor parenting …' Suddenly she was ranting, the volume of her speech growing louder and louder. Ron's voice rose, too, as he came to his own defence; abruptly, however, he broke off, raising a finger to his lips as she looked indignant at the halt. She took a breath, intending to rail at him, but …

'Hermione, wait – could you just –?' He was making shushing motions, listening intently. Next moment, they both heard it – a soft whimpering coming from the direction of the children's bedrooms.

They both jumped up at the same instant, disagreement forgotten, and dashed down the hall. Ron skidded to a stop in front of Rose's door, and Hermione narrowly missed careening into him. Muffled sniffles could be made out; they looked at each other, concerned and puzzled, but it was Hermione who knocked just before they entered.

'I'm home now, Rose – are you all right?'

In the dim bedroom, with the only light available streaking in from the passageway, it was difficult at first to make out the shadow of the elder of their two children, a precocious nine-year-old named Rose, lying face-down on top of her bed, the covers underneath her in disarray. She was clearly crying, but made no move to answer Hermione.

Rose was undoubtedly a 'daddy's girl', so Hermione did not object when Ron knelt by the bed and gently touched his daughter's shoulder.

'Rosie, what's wrong? Talk to us.'

With a huge effort, Rose rolled onto her back, exposing her tearstained face and causing her thick auburn hair to spread all about her pillow.

'Abby's mummy and daddy fight all the time – even  _at night_  – and Abby says if they separate, she'll have to live with her mum. Are you going to get a div-divorce? What will happen to me and Hugo?' The thought of this ghastly prospect elicited a new round of sobs, and Rose buried her head in her father's shoulder. Hermione and Ron exchanged startled looks.

'Whoa, whoa, slow down there.' Ron cupped his daughter's chin in his hand. 'We're not going anywhere. What made you think we might get divorced?'

The story came out then, quickly.

'…and it's because you're always fighting,' Rose finished, 'and anyway, Uncle Harry and Auntie Ginny don't argue, and …'

'Would you rather live with Uncle Harry and Auntie Ginny?' Ron asked gently.

Rose shook her head, adamant.

'Then – then I wouldn't have  _you_  …'

'… Hermione? You there?'

With effort, Hermione wrenched herself out of her remembering. Recalling what they had been talking about, she sighed.

'Yes,' she said slowly. 'And I am sorry, Ron – I mean, let's not fight for the sake of it. Of course it's not about the money. If I'd wanted someone rich, I would have married someone rich.'

It was a joke Ron could laugh at now, instead of taking offence, because he was confident enough in his own skin to no longer be jealous of his best friend's wealth and fame.

She expected Ron to make light of what she had said, or at least brush it off. He did neither.

'It's been years,' he said quietly, caring blue eyes meeting hers, 'and I'm still left wondering whether or not I made the right decision.'

She shook her head. 'If you'd stayed, it would have become all about the money.'

'You know we'll never be rich.' The unspoken words 'like Harry and Ginny' hung in the air. But inherited fortunes and professional Quidditch salaries didn't come out of nowhere.

'I don't want to be rich,' Hermione said soothingly. 'I want to be happy.'

'Are you?'

'Am I what?'

'Happy.'

 _'Yes,'_  she said truthfully, but found herself unable to stop herself adding, 'but …'

'I worry too, Hermione.'

She just looked at him.

'I worry about the shop, and George and Angelina, and whether or not Hugo is making friends at school. I worry about birthdays and holidays, and worry that maybe this is all too good to be true, after all we went through during the war. I worry that Rose still thinks we might split up, just because we fight sometimes. I worry that Hugo feels left out, because he's the youngest and doesn't make himself stand out.'

Some of Hermione's bewilderment must have shown in her face, for Ron elaborated seriously:

'I don't want Hugo to grow up thinking we don't care about him, that just because he's younger, that he matters less. I don't want him to constantly be stuck with hand-me-downs and stuck thinking that if he does well, it's no big deal, because everyone else has already done it first. I want him to get hand-knitted jumpers from Mum each Christmas, along with presents that show we  _care_  about him, that he's not just another Weasley. I don't want him to look into the Mirror of Erised and see himself bigger and better than the rest of us. Because that's not what family's all about.'

'There's the compassionate man I married,' she whispered, leaning forwards to kiss him, dinner and dignity forgotten.

'But it's all stupid, anyway,' Ron said, a trace of a grin on his face, once they broke apart. 'To worry too much. You know what Ginny would say – get off your backside and  _do_  it, because worrying didn't win the war.'

'No,' she agreed. 'But we did.'

Maybe the irritation had been fake (conceived out of habit), but her worry certainly wasn't – she'd kept that habit for too many years to consider breaking it now, and it was OK … she was _Hermione Granger_ , after all, activist and social rights pioneer (which basically meant she'd made it her job to worry about others), and she'd married the most wonderful man in the world, and they could let each other know when the worryguts behaviour got out of hand, because they  _understood_  each other, and that was enough.


End file.
